


Run To Me

by IamHurricane



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), stalia - Fandom, stiles and malia - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-05-24 23:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14964690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamHurricane/pseuds/IamHurricane
Summary: "When you get that feeling, that need to run...then run to me."Post 5x20 A few weeks after the events of the season 5 finale. Stiles and Malia have finally talked about their messy breakup and agreed to try and be friends. But when Malia needs him Stiles will stop at nothing to be there for her, even if it means blurring the lines between love and friendship.





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

 

"Dad, you're not seriously gonna eat that are you?"

Sheriff Stilinski digs his fork into his plate of gravy fries with a smirk, "Yep," he says with relish.

"Do you have any idea what that's gonna do to your arteries?"

The sheriff pauses his fork midway to his mouth and scowls at his son. "Stiles, don't you have anything better to do better to do than nag me about the state of my arteries?"

Stiles flashes him a grin, "Nope."

Sheriff Stilinski mutters under his breath and takes a bite of from his fork, while Stiles leans forward sipping from his straw.

"You're not exactly eating a salad over there either, y'know." His dad grumbles, jabbing his fork in the direction of Stiles' plate. Stiles smirks patting his lean stomach,

"I'm seventeen. I've got years yet to worry about my arteries." His dad squints at him,

"You calling me old, kid?"

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, "No… I'm calling you forty-eight." His dad rolls his eyes at him.

Then leans back in the diner booth, giving his son a fond smile. "Sometimes, y'know, you sound just like your mom."

Stiles ducks his eyes slightly under the weight of the compliment. Then shrugs it off with a joke. "Yeah, she was a smart-ass too."

His dad guffaws, "Yeah, and she could be a world-class pain in the neck if I didn't do exactly as she wanted." He says with a grin that crinkles around his eyes before jabbing an accusing finger in his son’s direction. "You definitely get that from her."

Stiles lets out a huff of laughter, "Yeah." He sinks in his chair, resting his arms on the tabletop. He gets lost for a few seconds staring into his soda glass, watching as the bubbles fizzle and pop. In his head, he can still faintly hear his mom's voice. That soft but firm tone she'd use on his dad to get her way. The tension in her voice when she worried or fussing over the pair of them. The lilt in her voice when she was being playful and teasing them. The bubbly sound of her laughter that had always managed to make him feel safe.

"Stiles?"

"Hmm?" His dad shoots him a concerned glance and then gestures down to his phone. Stiles straightens up, dropping his eyes to the table where his phone is buzzing wildly. There is a flurry of text messages from Lydia. He scoops up his phone and scrolls through them. He'd been texting Lydia all afternoon, and she hadn't replied.

_{Quit worrying.}_

_{Scott and I are going to be with her the whole time.}_

_{We're picking her up to take her to the lake house in half an hour}_

_{She's going to fine, Stiles.}_

Stiles chews on his thumbnail, his knee bouncing beneath the table as he rereads the messages over again, then taking a breath he sets his phone aside. It’s her first full moon without him. But it’s not like she’s alone. She’s going to be okay. He lectures himself. When he looks back up at his dad, he finds the sheriff quietly assessing him. Stiles tries to keep his face neutral and gives him a shrug.

His dad cocks his head to the side. “That Malia?”

Stiles looks down, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, "No." he sighs, "It was, Lydia."

"Huh," his dad grunts, seemingly unconvinced. "I could've sworn that was a Malia, look."

"Pfft, I don't have a 'Malia-look,' Dad."

"Yeah, Stiles," the sheriff says with a knowing grin, "You kinda do."

Stiles shakes his head hating his father's ability to read him.

"How did you two leave things, anyway?"

Stiles' blows out a breath before sinking back against the booth. "We're, uh," he clears his throat, "We're gonna be friends."

"Friends?" His dad asks raising an eyebrow. "And you're okay with that."

Stiles thinks back to earlier today when he'd seen Nathan Pierce leaning against Malia's locker, smirking at her as if he belonged there, and the muscle in his jaw twitches. The only thing that had stopped him from slugging Nathan in his smarmy face right then had been the fact that he'd been carrying Lydia's books at the time. So it wasn't like he had the right to be angry about some random guy making eyes at his girl—his ex-girlfriend. But it didn't change the fact that he was.

Stiles leans forward and reaches for his glass. "I guess I'm gonna have to be," he admits.

His dad's forehead wrinkles. "I'm sorry to hear that. I really liked you two together."

Stiles nods as he pushes his food around his plate with his fork, "Yeah, me too." He drops his fork leaning back, "But, uh, at least this way I don't lose her completely, y'know?"

His dad gives him a sad but reassuring smile. "As friends go, that girl is a good one to have."

Stiles hears her voice echoing in the back of his head—"I won't judge. Promise." He clears his throat gruffly and nods to his dad.

"Yeah."

"And I wouldn't worry about losing her, Stiles."

His eyes cut to his dad, who is watching him with a knowing look.

"As long as the two of you keep talking then you'll figure it out."

Stiles nods still not feeling all that confident, but he gives him a forced smile anyway, "Thanks." The bell on the diner door chimes as a few deputies stroll in. His dad looks up, and Parrish gives him a nod.

"I know you're on your break, Sheriff but could I run something by you?" His dad looks back at his son and hesitates.

Stiles gestures toward the door. "It's okay, dad."

"I'll be back in a minute." He dad says clapping him on the shoulder. Stiles sighs sinking back in his seat. His fingers were drumming on the tabletop indecisively as his eyes land on his phone. Then unable to stop himself he reaches for it to recheck his messages. Just as he taps on his messages, a dialogue box pops up the screen indicating 'Storage almost full.' Stiles grumbles under his breath, knowing that he won't be able to receive any new messages or emails till he deals with it. Annoyed he taps on 'Manage storage' and starts scrolling down through his options. He taps on photos and scrolls down looking for useless images to delete. He finds a series of blurry, dark pocket photos and begins rapidly junking them until a picture pops up that makes him freeze with his thumb hovering above the screen.

His heart squeezes in his chest as he stares at it. He swallows, looking away for a few seconds before his eyes dart back to the screen. He lets himself take it in this time, drinking in every detail. He'd forgotten all about taking it. But sitting here now he remembers exactly where he'd been and exactly what he'd been thinking when he snapped that picture.

He closes his eyes, and he can still hear the rain pattering on the deck. It had been a rainy afternoon last summer.

_Stiles was stretched out on the living room couch with 'Return of the Jedi' playing on the flat screen. Malia was laying on top of him with her cheek nestled into his chest with her head turned toward the screen. Malia's toes slid along his calf, before knocking against his ankle. Stiles flicked his eyes away from the screen and down to where Malia was sprawled across his chest._

_She shifted against him again, this time nuzzling into his chest and bunching up the fabric of his sweater in her fingers. He arched his neck, brushing her silky hair back behind her ear so that he could see her face and was met with her long, pretty eyelashes. Stiles smiled. Malia gave a small throaty chuckle in her sleep, before shifting her head and muttering nonsense into his sweater. Stiles tilted his head as he watched her laying there, a warm, peaceful feeling washing over him. His left hand settled across her back again, his fingers splaying wide, his hand rising and falling with her every breath._

_Not everyone got to see her like this. With her guard down. No one else got to have her like this, laying in his arms so trustingly. It stirs something in his chest that has been getting stronger and stronger each day. He's not sure what to call it because it's more than just love. It's this impossible urge to get closer to her, even when she's practically right on top of him. His fingers itch to touch her, so he does. He untucked his arm from beneath his head and gently traced her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. His fingers slipped into her hair, and he gently massaged her scalp. Her eyelids fluttered, and she grumbled into his chest. He should've felt guilty for waking her. But half awake Malia is kind of snuggly and adorable, and he can't help it._

_No one would believe him that she gets like this. That his tough as nails, badass of a girlfriend secretly likes to snuggle. Biting his lip he gets an idea. Spying his phone on the coffee table, he makes a grab for it and brings it up to hover over Malia's face which is squished into his chest. Then with a grin, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose._

_Malia wrinkled her nose and grumpily whined, "Hmph, Stiles," Just as he snapped the picture. He dropped his phone back onto the table, his chest rumbling with laughter. Malia swatted at his shoulder "Sstop it. M'mm comfy." She mumbled into his chest sleepily._

_"Sorry." He chuckled kissing her forehead._

_Malia growled under her breath and jabbed him in the ribs, accusingly "No you're not."_

_Stiles winced even as he chuckled, "No I'm not," he agreed, as he dropped a kiss on her hair. "You're missing my favorite movie. It's not the same without you muttering twenty questions every scene." He says with a wink as he reaches down to tickle her sides. She trashed before catching his hands in hers and intwining their fingers. She brought there joined hands down to his chest and set her chin on the backs of his knuckles, tilting her chin to look up at him._

_"M'sleepy." She whined, squishing her words together. Stiles slipped one of his hands free to cradle her cheek._

_"Nightmares last night?" He asked after a few seconds, his head tilting in concern. She'd been at home the night before. Her dad had been getting more vigilant, and it was getting harder to sneak out of her house that summer._

_She shook her head leaning heavily against his hand. "No. Couldn't sleep." She said blinking tiredly, "Never can. Only when I'm...with you." It made his heart melt, and he felt troubled and guilty all over again._

_He leaned down and pressed a long kiss to Malia's forehead, "Sorry, baby." He whispered. Then he lets his hand slip to the back of her neck and massaged the nape of her neck until her muscles went lax and she nestled back into his chest._

_"What about your movie?" She muttered tiredly._

_"Shh." He whispered in her ear, "Go back to sleep." She makes a soft noncommittal noise in reply and then nuzzles back into his sweater. Stiles just keeps stroking the back of her neck until her breathing evens out. Then he reaches out and grabs the remote off the coffee table and flicks off the t.v. The living room dims without the light of the t.v. And all he can hear is the rush of the rainstorm outside._

_Ditching the remote, he turns his head back toward Malia. He props his arm behind his head and just watches her sleep, feeling warm and content in a way that he's only ever felt with her. It wasn't always like this...it started out small this thing between them until it grew exponentially to the point that even just looking at her now like this made him ache in the best possible way. And the words just slipped out, "I love you," he whispered. He had thought it a thousand times before, but that was the first time he ever said it aloud. Just a whisper in the dark with her fast asleep on his chest._

Stiles blinked down at his phone his thumb hovering over the delete button before he snapped back to reality and hit cancel. He blew out a breath and tossed his phone on the table. Leaning his elbows on the table, he rests his chin on his knuckles as emotions rush through him. He's lost in his thoughts for a few seconds before his phone starts buzzing wildly. He grabs for it and brings it to his ear.

"Stiles! Where have you been?" Lydia says frantically.

"Why haven't you been responding to my texts?"

"What texts?" He asks sitting up, "Lydia what's going on?"

"There was a bear it went after Malia's dog Apollo—"

"Is she okay?"

"She got a little banged up but Stiles...her dad he saw her 'shift'"

Stiles cursed jumping out of his seat and running a hand through his hair.

"She's always been terrified of him finding out. Give me five. I'll be right over."

"No! No that's why I'm calling she's not here. She saw her dad looking at her, and she just took off. Scott and I we couldn't calm her down. She's running Stiles."

 


	2. I know where she's going

* * *

 

Panic sweeps through him. Lydia's voice falls into the background as his thoughts start spiraling.

_She's running._

It's always been a threat that he's felt dangling over his head.

The very real chance that things would get too hard, too scary and she'd just take off. And now that she's absorbed the rest of the desert wolf's power she's finally got what she's always wanted. The chance to go back to life as a coyote. He’d convinced himself that she'd changed, that she didn't need to run anymore. She's come so far. Her grades are up; she's on the track team, she has goals, prospects for the future. She has a home now, a family, friends… she has him. But none of that means anything if she loses her dad. She's been through so much in the last year and a half. She can't lose her dad too. She has to be so scared right now. She's out there in the woods somewhere, hurting and alone.

Lydia's voice is still rapidly spitting information in his ear when he manages to pull himself out of his own head and listen.

"She isn't at her old den or the crash site. Scott can't seem to pick up her trail. And Mr. Tate is going into shock. I can't leave him—"

"I know where she's going." He's suddenly more sure of that than he is of anything.

Stiles pins his phone between his ear and his shoulder, tossing a few dollars on the table before grabbing his jacket.

"Stay with Tate." One-armed he shrugs on his jacket as he makes for the door.

"Stiles?" his dad asks after him, his voice rising with concern. His head whips around to see his dad staring at him, his eyebrow raised. Distracted Stiles keeps his ear pressed to his phone.

He gestures for his dad to wait. "—Stiles be careful. She's not in control right now. Scott tried to stop her, and she threw him into a tree. Then she shifted into a coyote and ran off."

"Is Scott okay?"

"She knocked him out, Stiles. And when he came to, he couldn't find her trail." Stiles tugs at the collar of his jacket, dropping his phone off his shoulder and catching it in his hand.

"Dad," he says, his eyes flicking back to his father. "I need you to call an ambulance and send it to the Tate's farm."

He can tell his dad is confused and is prepared to rattle off a million questions. But Stiles shoots him an urgent look. And with a sigh, the sheriff relents and reaches for the hand mic on his shoulder. He's just starting to radio for an ambulance when Stiles shoulders his way through the diner door and sprints for the jeep.

* * *

 

He parks by the chain gate on the east side of the preserve and stalks out into the woods. Following the path that she had led him down a thousand times before by memory. It's getting late, and the sun is starting to sink behind the trees. The woods are still all around him save for the rustle of the wind in the trees and the crunch of leaves underfoot. He can already smell the crisp, clean scent of river water being kicked up in the rapids. Malia loves it here. Whenever things got bad for her at school or when studying got too much, Stiles would drive her out here. They'd spend hours out in the preserve, and he'd let Malia teach him all about being a coyote. Show him all the things that she knew, all the things she didn't have to try so hard to be good at. It took her a while to share this place with him though. Her secret place, on the large, smooth rocks overlooking the rapids.

He remembers the first time she brought him. How she'd taken his hand and led him up to her favorite rock. How they had propped their backs on the rock behind and stretched out on a large boulder that was still warm from the sun. How they sat and listened to the rush of the rapids. The sky had been achingly blue with brilliant, white clouds slowly drifting overhead. He remembers the feel of the rocks, warm on his back, the sun bright on his face and the feeling of her side pressed up against him. He remembers turning to look at her and catching her with her eyes closed. Malia didn't let her guard down easily. But that day she rested the back of her head on the rocks, tilted her chin upward, sunning herself on the rocks, wearing the most serene smile. It had caught him by surprise then how good it felt to see that smile.

He remembers sinking back against the rocks, with his face tilted her way, feeling like he could watch that smile all day. And he did until one of her eyes cracked open, and she told him to 'quit it.' They came back more times than he could count after that. Malia told him about how at the bottom of the rapids she used to catch fish. And how there were lots of places to hide a den nearby.

He made his way up carefully, spreading out his arms trying to keep his balance as he jumped from rock to rock. He slipped slightly, causing a boulder to teeter, he jumped catching his balance on another rock, while the rock behind him dislodged and clattered down the embankment. He blew out a breath of relief, but when he looked up, he caught a pair of wild eyes staring at him from the flat boulder above.

He froze. There laying across the flat rock above him was a beautiful coyote. _Malia._ His breath caught, he'd never seen her in coyote form before. She looked powerful, regal even sitting atop her rock. But as they stared at each other he could feel that something was very wrong, her chest rose and fell too rapidly, she was panting, and her beautiful coyote eyes were tired, strained. She was hurt. Stiles lifts his hands slowly, in a surrendering gesture.

"Malia." He says, softly. Malia flattens her ears and gives him a soft growl in warning. Stiles licks his lips shifting his weight on the rocks. At his movement, she launches to her feet with a painful yip, and bounds across the rocks, disappearing into the forest. Stiles scrambled up the embankment after her, pausing as he reached the top of the rocks to catch his breath. "Malia!" He calls after her.

That's when his eyes catch it. A trail of her footprints leading to the trees. Her tracks, drenched with blood.

* * *

 


	3. Just Listen

* * *

 

When Stiles makes it into the trees, she’s nowhere to be found, her footprints too well hidden by dead leaves and moss. His heart races as he skids his way down the steep hill. When he makes it to the bottom of the ravine his head whips back and forth searching for any trace of her. His heart is pounding, blood rushing in his ears. The sun is sinking fast. He has to find her before she hides herself away somewhere and bleeds to death. A Cool sweat prickles at the back of his neck. Stiles clenches his eyes shut, knotting his fingers in his hair.

 

“I know you’re out there!” He yells into the trees, his tone, shaky, desperate. He swallows thickly and takes a steadying breath, trying to settle his anxious heartbeat. “And I know you can hear me.” He says, this time softer, imploring her to listen. He sighs, his hand dropping from his hair as he stares into the seemingly endless forest. “Just focus on the sound of my voice, Malia. C’mon I know you can do it. Cut out all the noise and just hear this,” he pleads.

 

“I know you’re scared right now, probably more scared than you’ve ever been, which is ridiculous,” he says, with a small, rueful smile. “Because I’ve watched the way you go up against dread doctors, berserkers, and assassins. Your so damn reckless all the time, always charging in headfirst. You scare the hell out of me sometimes, y’know?” He licks his lips stepping deeper into the woods, dead leaves crunching underfoot, “But you’re also the bravest person, I think I’ve ever met.”

 

He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and his head whips toward it trying to track it. His eyes land on a low-lying branch that is still trembling, and Stiles goes very still. He can feel her eyes on him. He can’t see her, but he can feel her eyes. He raises his hands up in a surrendering fashion. He breathes deeply before continuing, keeping his tone tender, soothing.

 

“I know what happened with your dad,” he whispers. “And I know it takes you back to the night that you lost your mom and your sister. Your dad was the probably the one thing keeping you here. And the thought of losing him makes you want to run, to switch off the human side of you and just disappear into the forest. But I’m not just gonna let you go.” He says his voice growing stronger, he takes a step closer to the tree and he hears a low, rumbling growl come from the shadows behind the tree in response. Stiles pauses and stares into the shadows trying to make out her profile. He takes another tentative step closer, but the growl grows more menacing, so he stops in his tracks.

 

He sees a flash of her crisp, blue eyes in the darkness behind the tree. Stiles takes a steadying breath and watches her. She chuffs and paws at the ground in warning. He bows his head slightly, making it clear that he isn’t challenging her.

“Growl at me all you want,” he says as he sinks to his knees in the open clearing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

It was stupid. Dangerous. If she were an ordinary coyote, it would be like he was offering himself up as a meal. But she isn’t an ordinary coyote, and he knows that better than anyone. Better than even she does. The snarling behind the tree stops, and he can make out the profile of her fuzzy head, her ears lowering, her head cocks to the side as if she were reassessing him.

 

He restrains himself from making direct eye contact; he doesn’t want to bring her defenses back up. The forest is quiet all around them, and the earth is damp beneath his knees of his jeans. He glances up and watches her watching him. “This isn’t like last time, Malia.” He insists, “You can’t just run off into the forest and forget. Because this time I know you’re here. And I won’t let you. You’re not alone anymore. Do you hear me? I’m right here.” His big brown eyes, shimmer with unshed tears, “I’m right here,” he says thumping himself on the chest. “And I’m not going anywhere until I make sure you’re okay.”

 

His shoulders rise and fall with his breathing as he keeps his arms up, outstretched, surrendering. He waits, his heart slamming into his ribcage. The shadows begin to stretch as the sun sinks behind the horizon. With delicate soundless steps she toes out from behind the tree and Stiles resists the urge to go to her, he holds his ground. She snaps her jaws at him, her eyes feral, the fur on the back of her neck raising up making her look even deadlier.

 

Stiles swallows down the instinctual fear that claws its way out of his stomach urging him to run. But he quells the fear. She won’t hurt him. This is the same girl that would sneak into his bedroom at night so that she could be there to snuggle him if he had a nightmare. The same girl that leaves out milk for the stray cats that live in the rundown barn on her dad’s property. The same girl that refuses to throw out her pair of raggedy bunny slippers because they were the last thing her little sister ever gave her.

 

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” he whispers, insisting gently. Malia’s coyote thrashes her head, spitting a snarl at him as if to contradict that. She’s barely ten feet away.But Stiles brazenly reaches a hand toward her. “You can’t scare me away, Mal,” He says with a shake of his head. “I love you too much.”

 

And just like that the piercing blue fades from her eyes and they soften into his favorite shade of caramel brown. She lowers her head, her growls dissolving into a low, pained whimpering. She backs up, limping slightly as she draws up her right front paw, balancing herself on three legs. He sees it now, the fur on her leg, dark and matted with blood.

 

“Shhh, shhh it’s okay. It’s okay.” Stiles soothes, praying she doesn’t flee. He shuffles a little closer on his knees. “Please baby,” he begs, “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Just let me help you, okay?”

 

Her fuzzy ears pitch toward him slightly, and she takes a slow, jerky step toward him, hopping somewhat on three paws. She puts her bloody paw down and limps slightly, as she takes a few more steps forward. “That’s it, that’s it.” He coaxes stretching his hand out to her. She hops one more step closer and careful so as not to spook her he inches forward on his knees.

 

Malia’s coyote hangs her head for a moment and lets out a deep, sorrowful moan then her reddish-brown coat, morphs into long, tangled chocolate brown tresses, her spine bows and straightens, as her fur devolves revealing her golden skin. A very human, soul-crushing cry tears from Malia’s lips as she grips handfuls of dead leaves in her hands.

 

Her shoulders heave as she sobs. She crawls the last few feet through the leaves to get to him. Stiles rushes to meet her gathering her in his arms. Her shoulders shake with her cries, and his heart aches, he peels off his jacket and wraps it around her, then bands his arms around her, holding her crushingly tight.

 

She presses her face into his shoulder, her voice thick with tears, “I—c-can’t l-lo-lose h-him, Stiles,” she sputters as she shakes. He’s seen Malia cry before but never like this. He’s comforted her after nightmares. Held her when she’s been to visit her mom’s and her sister’s graves. But he’s never seen her this devastated before.

He presses his face into her hair, dropping kisses on the crown of her head, “I know, I know,” he whispers, “I’ve got you, Mal. I got you." Malia muffles her tears into his chest and grabs onto his t-shirt, bawling the fabric up in her fists. Stiles holds her tight, as he kneels there on the forest floor, rocking her in his arms as he whispers sweet, soothing words in her ear.


	4. I've Got You

* * *

 

They stay like that with their arms curled around each other on the forest floor until the blood from Malia’s arm seeps through Stiles’ shirt. Stiles pulls away slightly, reaching for her arm. Malia pulls it into her chest, defensively. “I can feel it healing,” she says, in a small raspy voice.

Stiles shakes his head before shrugging off his plaid shirt, “It’s not healing fast enough.” He insists as he tears the sleeve off his shirt and stretches the fabric taut between his hands. Malia keeps her arm tucked into her chest stubbornly. Stiles raises an eyebrow at her, distinctly unimpressed. He stares her down just as stubbornly. Malia’s eyes break contact with him to glance down at the strip of plaid fabric.

“Promise that you won’t take me to Deaton,” she insists. Panic sweeps through him. He can’t promise her that. If she’s really hurt, he won’t be able to do anything for her. But if he doesn’t do as she says she might try and run again.

Stiles hesitates, biting his lip, “I won’t take you to Denton unless I have to.” He promises. Malia stares at him for a long moment as if reading him before with a sigh she surrenders her arm. Stiles feels queazy as he stares down at the deep, bloody gash on her forearm, but he swallows it down and carefully wraps up her arm.

The forest is dark all around them, and Stiles feels a bit uneasy with a weak and bleeding Malia out in the open like this. Malia tucks her bandaged arm back into her chest, and very subtly her shoulders begin to tremble. Stiles reaches out wrapping his arm around her. He isn’t sure if she’s shaking from the blood loss or from the fact that she’s naked under his coat. It’s probably a bit of both. Stiles reaches out and brushes a lock of her wild, windswept hair out of her eyes and tucks it behind her ear. He lets his warm hand linger there on her cheek, “Let’s get you out of here, huh?” Malia’s gives a small nod, her lips already starting to tremble. Stiles keeps his arm wrapped around her back as they climb to their feet.

Malia hisses in pain as her feet give out from underneath her. Stiles catches her drawing her into his chest. She sags against him, trembling harder now. With a small stubborn growl, she slips her hands down his shoulders and grips onto his biceps trying to steady herself on her feet. But when she leans away from him putting weight back onto her feet, she gasps in pain. The little sound causes something inside Stiles to snap, and before she can make another attempt to hurt herself, he sweeps her feet off the forest floor and gathers her up in his arms. Malia goes stiff in his arms, her head whipping toward him. And she finds herself practically nose to nose with him. She looks a bit disgruntled, her mouth twisted to one side, a little growl of annoyance slipping past her teeth. He can tell she’s on the verge of telling him to put her the hell down. That she isn’t some coyote pup that he needs to fend for.

“Please,” Stiles says, his big brown eyes pleading with her, “I’m not good at seeing you hurt.” Malia blinks, startled by that. When her eyes rest on him again, they are softer. She dips her chin giving him a small nod of consent. “Thank you.” He breaths out, relieved.

His eyes scan the dark forest. Malia can read his hesitation, and she turns her head slightly and tastes the air. She jabs her thumb over Stiles’ left shoulder.

“Uh, Stiles? The jeep’s that way.”

Stiles chuckles softly, “Right, thanks,” as he turns them. He pauses for a moment adjusting his hold on her, so she’s cradled more securely into his chest as he starts walking. He’s careful, his eyes peering at the forest floor ahead of him so that he won’t trip and jostle her.

After a few steps, Malia begins to lean against him, her muscles melting into him. She’s still shivering. Her legs feel like ice beneath the heat of his hand, he rubs his thumb back and forth along the back of her knees trying in vain to warm her.

Somewhere along the darkened path Malia curls her uninjured arm around his neck and tucks her face into his neck. Her breath is warm against the crook of his neck, but the tip of her nose is freezing, and when she presses it into his skin he shudders, and his hands flex against the small of her back and the backs of her legs.

When they reach the jeep, he sets her down tenderly in the passenger seat and roots around in the backseat finding his thick lacrosse hoodie for her. He offers it to her and turns away as she moves to take off his coat. She slips the sweater over her head. When she’s done, she touches his back, and he turns back toward her. He fluffs out his jacket and tucks it around her legs before clipping on her seatbelt. Then jumping in the driver’s seat, he starts the engine up and cranks up the heat. It takes a few minutes but soon the jeep is gloriously warm. She’s quiet on the way to his house; he casts glances at her every few minutes as they drive. She has her eyes closed, her nose tucked into the collar of his sweater as she savors the heat. When they make it to his house, he comes around to her side opening the door for her.

As she sits up, he hesitates, unsure if he should see if she wants to try and stand on her own or if he should offer to carry her. Malia seems to be able to read the internal struggle as it plays out on his face and scoots forward in her seat taking pity on him. She lifts her arms to him, and Stiles instantly leans down to her so she can wrap her arms around her neck. Then he scoops her up in his arms and kicks the jeep door shut.

With a little trouble, the pair of them manages to get the front door open and then he carries her up the stairs and into the bathroom on the second floor. He sets her down gingerly on the counter and leaves her there for a moment to retrieve the first aid kit from the hall.

Extracting a set of scissors from the kit he carefully cut away the improvised bandage and sighed in relief when he looked at her wound. It was already healing; her skin was starting to knit itself back together slowly. But to calm his nerves, he cleaned and re-bandaged the wound anyway. As he tosses away the remnants of his bloody plaid shirt, he notices for the first time in the bathroom light the state of her ankle. Stiles flinches at the look of it. It’s swollen and tinted an angry looking reddish-purple. It’s no wonder she couldn’t put any weight on it.

Stiles unzips a different pouch in the first aid kit and pulls out a long tensor bandage. He pulls the plastic covering off and sinks to his knees in front of her. Taking a moment to inspect her ankle he struggles to recall the motions of wrapping a sprain.

Stiles cast a look up at her with his hands poised above her ankle and lifts an eyebrow at her. Malia clenches her jaw and nods. Stiles then swiftly and gently picks up her ankle and begins wrapping it gently but firmly. Malia is quiet as he works. When he’s done, he takes a moment smoothing his hands gently along the tensor.

He tilts his head up to look at her, “That feel, okay?” He asks while cradling her foot between his big hands.

When he looks up, he finds Malia staring down at him with those gorgeous, caramel brown eyes seemingly lost in thought. The weight of her gaze makes his throat go dry, his neck flushing red. But thankfully before Stiles can make more of a fool of himself Malia’s eyes blink back to alertness. She nods, wiggling her toes which are still in his grasp.

“The pressure feels better,” she assesses. “I, uh, I’m gonna try and stand.”

Stiles pushes the kit aside and springs to his feet. He steps back from her but brings up his arms ready to steady her if she needs it. Malia slips down off the counter and tentatively touches her sprained foot to the cold tile floor. She puts a little more weight on it and winces, Stiles instantly steps into her, and she grabs his shoulder steadying herself. His hand slips around her waist instinctively, anchoring her to him.

“I’m okay,” she assures, gently. Stiles nods, he doesn’t trust his voice yet. Not when he’s this close to her and she’d just been looking at him like that…like she used to. She squeezes his shoulder then releases him and takes a tentative step forward.

Stiles drops his arm and follows her out into the hall. He kicks a few obstacles out of her path and ushers her into his room. His room is unkept. And he suddenly feels insecure about it. Wondering if there is anything left out in his room that he’d rather she didn’t see. He finds it when he remembers the photograph he has tacked up near his investigation board.

It was a picture of the pack from last summer, when they had gone to the drive-in theatre. They were all piled into the back of Liam’s dad’s pickup, and everyone was smiling and waving. But in the right side corner of the picture, Stiles and Malia were cuddled together. Malia was sitting on his lap, wearing mittens with her hood pulled up. Stiles had Malia tucked inside his jacket with him and was kissing her cheek. The picture hadn’t been there when they were dating. He’s not even sure that Malia remembered them taking it.

She didn’t seem to notice though. Stiles distracted himself by pushing some textbooks off his bed and moving the laundry basket with fresh clothes packed on his bed to the floor. Malia sat down gingerly on the corner of his bed. Stiles ducked down rooting around in the basket finding warm sweatpants, socks, and another sweater. He held them out to Malia. Who was still in just a sweater and jacket…and sitting on his bed. For the first time in four months, she was in his room. Stiles shook that thought from his head.

“Here, change into some warm clothes and I, uh, I’m gonna go get you something to eat,” he tells her as he moves toward the door.

Malia wrinkles her nose. “I’m not very hungry.”

“You lost a lot of blood,” Stiles says as he pauses at his bedroom door. “You need something in your system to help you heal.” Then without giving her any more of a chance to argue with him, he clomps down the stairs and makes for the kitchen. He makes her a peanut butter sandwich and pours her a tall glass of orange juice. He quickly shoots a few texts to Scott, Lydia and his dad letting them know that he’s found Malia so that she’s safe.

Then he wraps the sandwich in a napkin and carefully balancing the tall glass of juice he mounts the stairs, bringing the meager feast to his room. He freezes when he steps through the doorway as he catches a glimpse of the pale expanse of Malia’s back, just before she tugs her sweater down over her head. He turns on his heel and waiting in the hallway until he gets his heartbeat back under control.

By the time he nudges open the half-open door, he finds Malia sitting up in his bed, already nested in his blankets. Her face is drawn and serious, and he can make out a fresh trail of tears down her cheek. His heart aches in his chest. Stiles steps into the room and comes around to the side of the bed.

“Hey,” he said softly. Malia looked up. “Here I made your favorite.” He says holding out the sandwich. Malia frowns slightly looking at it as if the thought of eating it couldn’t be less appetizing.

“I’m really not hungry, Stiles.” She says. Stiles chews on his lip before ripping the sandwich into two pieces.

“Here, just try and finish this much.” He instructs and sets down the orange juice. “You’ve got to finish this whole thing though.” Malia huffs and accepts the sandwich. Stiles drags his desk chair until it’s parked at the edge of his bed and sits with her silently as they munch on their sandwiches. When Malia manages to down the whole glass of orange juice, Stiles feels marginally better.

“How are you feeling? Are you warm enough?”

He reaches out and feathers a touch along her forehead, she’s not as cold as before, and she’s getting her color back. Malia leans into his touch for a moment, her eyes falling closed. Stiles stays very still. Then she pulls away, and Stiles drops his hand.

Then Malia sniffs looking down. Stiles leans forward resting his hand there on the blanket next to hers. “Do you want to talk about it? I mean, you don’t have to, you don’t have to say anything. But if you want to, you know I’m here for you right?”

Malia gives him a watery smile as she nods, “I know. I just, I don’t want to think about it. I’m so tired, Stiles.” She says as she curls into her side, laying her head down on his bed.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he soothes, “Just try and get some sleep.” She mumbles something unintelligible and between the blood loss, the chill and the turmoil of the day easily slips into sleep. Stiles reached out tucking the blankets around her, gently. 

Then leaning back he rested his chin on his upturned hand and kept watch over her, guarding her from nightmares. 

 After an hour or so he notices his dad  leaning in his doorway, and he gestures for Stiles to step out in the hall. Stiles turns to glance at Malia through the half-open door hoping that he didn’t wake her. His dad brushes him aside and reaches into the room flicking out the light. 

“Let her sleep, Stiles.” His dad insists with a hand on his son’s shoulder. The pair of them quietly head down to the kitchen and sit at the table. Stiles tells his dad about how he’d found Malia and what state she’d been in. And his dad swears under his breath, his brow furrowing with concern, “That poor girl.”

His dad fills him in on how things went at the Tate’s farm. And how Mr. Tate and was being treated for shock at Beacon Hills Memorial. But he was stable and unharmed other than a laceration to his leg, but that he was damn lucky that bear hadn’t done worse to him. Malia had given the Scott a concussion when they’d had their struggle but Scott was okay, he’d healed within the hour.Stiles sighs in relief and exhaustion creeps up on him rather suddenly. His shoulders slump, and he lets out a deep yawn. His dad claps him on the shoulder and tells him to get some sleep. 

* * *

 

After half an hour of tossing and turning on the couch, Stiles gives up and makes a makeshift bed on the floor. But it isn’t much better. Every time he shifts even slightly the assortment of couch cushions beneath him slip out of place. Eventually, with a fed-up sigh, he tucks his arm behind his head and sinks back against his pillow, lying as still as possible. He stares up at the ceiling, his hand resting on his chest, his thumb tapping with nervous energy as he lies there wondering if she’s still sleeping.

She’s a rough sleeper even on a good night. And tonight is decidedly not a good night. But he’s hoping that she exhausted enough from healing to have a dreamless sleep. He shuts his eyes and sighs. Then he hears a creak on the stairs and his eyes crack open. He sees her shadow on the stairs. He stays very still. She tip-toes across the living room.

Moonlight streams in through the bay window and glints cross her hair. She’s wearing his favorite old hoodie; it falls to about mid-thigh on her, as she passes by the window pale light glides along her long, bare legs. As she moves toward him, Stiles sits up, words half ready on his lips when she suddenly grabs the edge of the sleeping bag and lifts it up.

Before he can even get the words past his throat, she slips in beside him under the sleeping bag and turns her back to him. Stiles stays still for a moment afraid to move, then very slowly lowers himself back down, lying stiffly on his pillow. Malia shifts beside him, and he hears a very faint sniffling sound.

Stiles rolls toward her, “Malia?” He whispers, softly. Her shoulders start shaking. He reaches out cupping her shoulder tenderly. 

Malia reaches up to grab his hand on her shoulder. He flinches figuring that she’s going to push him away. But instead, she tugs on it, dragging his arm down to settle around her. She slips her fingers through his, threading them together and presses her face into the back of his hand as tears start to spill down her cheeks. Stiles instantly shuffles closer, crowding up against her back.

“Aw, Mal.” He whispers consolingly, his arm tightening around her, instinctively. He reaches out with his other hand and strokes her hair. He doesn’t know what to do, or what to say. He’s never seen her this distraught. “What can I do?” He pleads. Malia shakes her head. He moves closer hugging her tight, his lips brushing her hair. “What do you need?”

“Just this.” She whispers, her voice choked with tears. “Just you.”

Stiles feels his heart squeeze in his chest, “You have me,” he rumbles softly in her ear.

Malia turns her head over her shoulder and finds his lips in the dark. It’s just a soft, brush of her lips, but Stiles gasps into her mouth as heat sears through him. It’s like coming home.

Malia rolls toward him and catches his face in her hands, sealing their lips together. One of her hands slips up the back of his neck, threading in his hair. Her other hand cups his jaw, angling his head so she can kiss him more fully. Stiles drags Malia closer, his arms twining around her waist as he drags his lips against hers, achingly slow. 


End file.
